Writer's Indulgence
by Jade3
Summary: I don't know what this is - and I don't think I care, because it's a pure lark. Mary Sue? Check. Minimal research? Check. Utterly romanticized pirates? Abso-bloody-lutely. All right. We're good to go.
1. Between the Tavern and the Inn

_Before you ask, yes: the character's name is indeed Hawaiian.   
  
An Italian-raised Hawaiian who is now bumming about the British colonial Caribbean?  
  
Hey, maybe if you're lucky I'll come up with a somewhat logical explanation for it all.  
  
Yes, I've finally given into the temptation and written one of the banes known as Mary Sues. I don't know right now if any of the movie plot is going to be pertinent to the storyline. I don't know if there'll be a storyline. I don't know when and if I'll update. I don't know how many errors are in here, because I only did enough research to quell the instincts that are kicking and screaming against this.  
  
And frankly, I don't care. Mary Sue, remember?  
  
Enjoy. *smirks_  
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_Sweat trickled through the hair pulled back tight against her scalp and careened  
down her temples. It stung the skin where salt had already dried into the pores and  
seeped into the corner of parted lips, where it was sucked into her mouth by heavy  
breathing. She cocked her sword to block a heavy blow and felt weakened muscles tremor  
under the strain.   
  
It was a risky thing, to switch from her left hand to her right. It left a lull in which  
there would be no defense against any attack. The young Hawaiian retreated as she  
tossed the guard to her other set of fingers and found her grip. Then she had to parry for  
her life as her attacker took advantage of the fact, thrusting to kill.  
  
They fenced until she was forced to change hands again, and this time she was  
not so lucky. He knocked the sword from her grasp before she could adjust, and then she  
felt her back against the wall and a dull blade at her throat.  
  
Keahi let her head fall back and closed her eyes, gasping for air. Her pants, cut  
off above the knee, and her silk shirt, its sleeves torn away, were all but soaked. She was  
dressed unspeakably indecently, to say the least, and in the company of a man not more  
than twenty years her senior.  
  
"_God_," she gasped, finally opening her eyes and lowering her head to look at  
Maestro Vincelli. The steel at her throat dropped to accomodate the movement.  
  
"Do not blaspheme," Maestro chided in his stern, impassive voice, sliding his  
weapon into its shaft. Keahi saw him use his sleeve to wipe a considerable amount of  
sweat from his forehead. She managed a weak smile of satisfaction and knelt down to  
pick her sword up.   
  
Something made her look up from the hard, polished wood. Maestro was watching  
her, his breathing already quieter and his dark eyes thoughtful. The thick eyebrows were  
lifted just slightly. Keahi tilted her head in question, smearing away a strand of black  
hair that had been plastered to her cheek. She felt very young again and Maestro  
suddenly looked taller than he already was; stronger than she knew he was. She had  
begun to test her teacher's strength in the past month.  
  
"You have grown," he said in English. "Very much, you have grown in only a  
year."  
  
Keahi stared at him and shook her head, still breathless. "No," she replied,  
staying with Italian. "Only five centimeters, Maestro."  
  
"No," came his heavy accent. "You have grown." He gestured towards the sword  
on the floor. "Your...skill has grown. Very much. Too much."  
  
Keahi followed his movement and watched as a bead of sweat fell to the smooth  
floor, where it splashed into a thousand more crystals. The girl stared down at the wood,  
so smooth and bright even after scuffed by their footwork. If she looked hard enough,  
perhaps she could see her reflection.  
_  
** October, 1659  
Port Charles, Hispanola**  
  
The woman came awake without reason. She looked about herself. Black eyes still  
glazed by sleep were searching for her likeness in the beautiful wooden floor of a beautiful  
spacious hall from long ago. All they realized was a dark alley between an abandoned inn  
and a questionable tavern. She could hear drunken laughter faintly through the wall behind  
her.   
  
The nights here were mild even in the deepening autumn, but a breeze coming in  
from sea razored a chill into the air. The woman pulled the ratty grey blanket tighter about  
her shoulders and shifted, trying to find something more comfortable against the rough  
bricks. Beneath the blanket, her hand dropped to the strap and scabbard that lay propped  
againste her hip. Calloused fingers smoothed over leather that was fast becoming worn  
and ended on the familiar hilt of her rapier, cold and reassuring. It was all she had to her  
name aside from the clothing on her back and the meager number of coins hidden about  
her person.  
  
The rowdy shouting grew louder as a gentleman came down the street, preceded  
by a little black boy carrying a lantern on a stick. Keahi listened to the tap-tap of the man's  
cane, punctuating both pairs of footfalls, and squinted as the swinging light fell briefly on  
her face. The blackie's eyes lingered for a moment on the slender, defined face that almost  
resembled more a boy than a woman. A white scar glinted against the skin that was  
stretched taut and tan over her sharp cheekbone.  
  
Then the pair had passed, leaving Keahi blinking the glare from her eyes. Her head  
fell back against the wall and she looked up at the moon. It was only partially visible in the  
gap between two roofs. She saw that it was near its zenith, perhaps a little beyond, and  
decided that it could not be later than one in the morning.  
  
It was an unnecessary thing most of the time, to keep track of the hour. Keahi  
lived by day and night, and when the fancy took her she slept if she could; if her stomach  
complained then she ate, if she could. Telling by moon and sun was a habit from when she  
was young. Maestro had taught her how.  
  
Her fingers tightened around the rapier. Maestro had taught her everything.  
  
The one exception was marksmanship. Keahi had taught herself to handle a  
revolver, and handle it well enough to be useful with one. She twitched. A revolver would  
in fact be useful now.  
  
  
"Lilly-livered swine shit!"  
  
Keahi jerked awake again. The alley had changed on her left side. Several meters  
away, there was a square of light spilled onto the ground from the open back door and a  
man slamming into the wall opposite. The woman could not tell if it had been the sound of  
his body or the banging door or the attacker's roared oath that had brought her awake, but  
in this case it hardly mattered. She carefully stood to her feet in the shadows, watching as  
the doorway was filled by a large, bulky silhouette.   
  
"You owe me, Sparrow!"  
  
The man called Sparrow seemed to straighten with a great deal of effort,  
swaying and slurring his words. "Le'ss be precise, mate," he grinned, as though his skull  
had not just been bashed into the wall behind him, "I," he swallowed and his eyelids  
fluttered. Keahi narrowed her eyes. The man was helplessly drunk: the precarious way his  
wide hat was perched on his bobbing head was proof enough of that. "_I_ don't owe ye  
anythin'. To _owe_ you would be t' say that I _b'rowed_ it in the first place, but I don't ever  
rememberrreachin' sush an accord, savvy?"  
  
Keahi listened hard for any sound from the tavern through the door. The racous  
voices she had fallen asleep to had melted into a subdued buzz of noise. She glanced up.  
The strip of sky that she could see was black, and the scattered stars were fading. Dawn  
was approaching.  
  
The unmistakable click of a pistol jerked her attention back to ground level. The  
heavy man was advancing on hapless Sparrow, pointing the barrel of his gun with a steady  
hand. "Let me refresh yer memory," he snarled.  
  
Keahi stepped carefully backwards over her sword, never taking her eyes off the  
two men as she bent at the knees to grab it by the shaft.   
  
"Consider it refreshed, mate." She saw Sparrow bow with a flourish from the  
corner of her eye. Drunk, she decided, or quite possibly mad. "Allow me t' _treat_ you to  
that fine strumpet o'er there, eh?"  
  
Keahi's head snapped up. She remained crouched where she was, staring in  
disbelief. He'd seen her.   
  
The large man glanced swiftly at her, never taking his gun from Sparrow's chest.  
"That 'un?" he grunted. "That's no strumpet."  
  
It was her hair - and her trousers - that was deceiving him. What had once been a  
thick fall past her shoulders was now measured no longer than her middle finger. It   
stood in soft spikes from her head and in the dark, from a distance, Keahi did  
indeed resemble a man.   
  
"Oh, that's a strumpet, mate," Sparrow grinned, nodding sagely. "Just look at the  
chest. Oy, darling!" he called to her. "Come now, keep this handsome fellow company."  
  
The strumpet in question slowly rose to her feet, keeping the rapier flush against  
her body. "You couldn't afford me," she called back. Recent sleep thickened her accent.  
  
The heavy Italian in her words served to at least distract the large man. "Well now,  
Sparrow. She's a foreign wench."  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow watched as Nantuck's eyes were drawn again to the side.  
His own gaze traveled down to the revolver resting against his chest. "Indeed," he said,  
before grabbing the other man's wrist and twisting it up and away - farther away than was  
healthily possible. Nantuck roared as the bones in his wrist snapped. Sparrow scooped up  
the pistol as it clattered to the ground and took off running.  
  
"Many thanks, love!" he shouted to the woman as he drew near, expecting to be  
past within the next second. Instead, he was slammed against the wall (again), and before  
he could comprehend the first fact, he was more painfully aware of a steel blade at his  
throat and the hand with the gun pinned high above his head.  
  
He got only one look at her face as she was pressed nearly full length against him,  
but it was a face he doubted he had ever seen the likes of before. Then cruel fingers were  
digging into a pressure point of his wrist, prying his hand open with sharp pain. Keahi  
caught the pistol as it dropped.  
_  
"Non. Grazie, signore."_  
  
Then the sword was gone and so was she.  



	2. Hinds, Blacksmith and More

_...ugh, it's hot and muggy today and it's invading my room. I don't feel like working on my brainchild. Requires far deeper thinking and effort than I can dredge up at the moment. This story doesn't require anything of the sort. Decisions, decisions.  
  
Anyway, to answer Celeste's question: a Mary Sue is an original character - a female the overwhelming majority of the time - that waltzes into the world of -insert fandom here- and takes over. I use the term 'waltzes' very loosely; she usually makes her entrance without so much grace. The really severe ones, in the case of PoTC, are dropped in from the future in their halter tops and short short shorts. Mary Sue is absolutely gorgeous. She's going to have _long flowing red/golden/ebony/silver hair down to her ass_, and eyes that change color. Depending on her mood, of course. Said hair and eyes is going to wow the male character of the fandom that the author is in love with, and Mary Sue will quickly be screwing him (whether or not she's legal). If that isn't likely to happen given the male character's personality, Mary Sue'll take care of that. She sucks the in-characterness right out of the fic.  
  
I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about, if you've hung around ff.net for any length of time. *twitch*_  
  
_Right, and sorry about the whole first chapter being posted twice thing. I have no idea how that happened. I uploaded this file. This file was displayed in the preview. ...this file was _not _displayed after the upload. And the chapter also wouldn't go away when I tried to edit or delete it. *bludgeons ff.net*_  
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Captain Jack Sparrow was a man of the sea. One could even say that, as a pirate, he was wed to her. It was a happier union than those of honest sailors, who after long months pined for land beneath their feet. Land held danger for Sparrow, where the ocean promised freedom.  
  
Even so, every man must return to his mother, whether it be for news and fresh food, or in Sparrow's case, women and rum, and then more rum. Port Charles, then, while certainly not Tortuga, was not a miserable place to stay for a week. Unless, of course, Sparrow ran into old Nantuck the gambling fool, whom he had cheated out of a purse of gold several years ago.  
  
But what would be the chances of _that_?  
  
"Yes, Jack, what would be the chances of _that_?" he mocked himself beneath his breath, rubbing his bruised skull.  
  
It was two or three hours past noon by the sun. Port Charles's main street was bustling with activity, its cobblestones clattering with the beat of men and women and horses' hooves. Sparrow usually made a point to avoid this part of town, as this was where the street authorities were least corrupt and there were no drinking houses or brothels to keep his interest. Unfortunately, it was neither drinking houses nor brothels that he was looking for today, and that fact alone made him want to down the rest of the rum in his pouch.  
  
Shops upon shops lined both sides of the street: bakeries and tailors and woodcarvers and anything else a body could desire. Sparrow passed them all by. Sometimes a plump woman with a basket over her arm would stop and watch him pass sidelong, and Jack did not even favor her with his golden smile of insolence. He looked almost sober as he made his way down the walk.  
  
The smithy was the last building at the end of the street, standing a ways off from its closest neighbor. There were considerably fewer people conducting business in this sector, much to Jack's relief. The pirate staggered to the doors of the smithy and looked up at the sign hanging over them: _Hinds, Blacksmith and More -- Est. 1636_.  
  
Sparrow looked over his shoulder; to his left; to his right. The odd person passing through did not seem to be affording him much attention. After a moment he crossed to the side of the old building and went around back. Hinds would likely not appreciate a pirate captain using the entrance proper - not out of personal offense, mind, but in the interest of professional reputation.  
  
Hinds had left the door unlocked. Sparrow quietly lifted the latch and slipped inside. The backroom was dark and empty, filled by ominous shadows that a thin wedge of sunlight revealed to be smithy's tools before Jack closed the door silently behind him. He took two stealthy steps forward, intent on catching Hinds by surprise, when voices coming the main forge froze him in place. Sparrow drew to one side of the room, wincing every time a precariously balanced hammer came too close, and cocked his head. That was Hinds's voice, scratchy and forever amused, but the woman's lilt...  
  
Jack crept up to the threshold. Hinds and his customer were out of sight; all he could see was the wall ten meters opposite, a portion of the front doors, and the hindquarters of a mule in between. He bowed his head and strained his ears, edging one eye quizzically around the corner. Hinds came into view first, sitting on a wooden bench, his back turned to Jack. He was absently polishing a long twist of silver that looked intended as a scabbard's ornament, looking up all the while at a dark woman before him. She was not dark as a Negro was dark, or even as a mutt would be; rather her browned skin seemed closer to gold than black. Sparrow recognized her instantly - the woman in the alley only last night.  
  
"Now, pardon me - I'm just a simple smith - but you sound foreign, miss."  
  
Sparrow rolled his eyes. Hinds_ loved_ pretending he was just a simple smith. Crafty bastard.  
  
"I am," she replied. Sparrow grimaced in confusion as he took the opportunity to give her a more thorough study, unconsciously rubbing the wrist she had just about impaled with her fingers. How had she walked the streets clad in men's clothing? She wore peasant's pants, simple and straight and black, that reached all the way to her ankles - no doubt they had been sewn for someone considerably taller - and a beige shirt that billowed full in the sleeves and draped across her front as it had been designed to do against a flat chest.  
  
"You...you _look _it, too," Hinds continued, gesturing with his free hand as though he were having trouble finding words. "But you don't _look _the same foreign as you _sound_, if you get my meanin'."  
  
"I am Italian," the woman said, looking down at Hinds with veiled scrutiny. Jack brought his fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Italian, his pirate's ass. Granted, her accent sounded true enough - though not nearly as thick as he had first heard it last night - but she looked about as Italian as a blackie. Her eyes were far too long; her features too shallowly set with the exception of her cheekbones. No Italian woman, whether lady or peasant, would cut their hair shorter than most men's.  
  
But she was foreign. Sparrow would concede that.  
  
"Italian, eh?" Hinds set the silver aside and twisted the polishing rag between his hands, crossing one ankle over his knee. "Odd way you Italian women dress - beggin' your pardon."  
  
"No need," she told him before shifting her weight onto one leg, and Sparrow could practically see all pretense falling away from her like a cloak. "Mister Hinds, I have a rather difficult commission. The first blacksmith that I saw found it beyond his experience, so he referred me to you."  
  
Jack saw Hinds's back straighten in interest. "Which blacksmith, now?"  
  
"William Turner."  
  
Sparrow jerked and narrowed his eyes. Hinds canted his head and glanced askew at the young woman, his simpleton's expression quickly melting. The blacksmith suspected that his drunkard's stubble and stupid grin had never fooled his caller in the first place. "Will Turner, in Port Royal?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," she nodded. "A young man apprenticed to Mister Brown."  
  
"Will's no apprentice," Hinds snorted, waving his hand and standing up. Now it was the woman who tilted her head to gaze at him. Hinds was a tall, thick man who did not always appear broad at first glance. His long face and the greying thin hair that brushed his shoulders saw to that. "I suppose you're at least his acquaintance, since he gave you my name."  
  
"My father commissioned swords from him," she told him and gave him no time to remark on her answer. "I want to commission a dagger from you."  
  
"A dagger?" Hinds's eyebrows climbed up. "Young Will couldn't manage a dagger?"  
  
The woman turned her back and walked away to the side, out of Sparrow's sight. Hinds, though, could see as she went to the cloak and hood that she had entered in and that now lay in a pile on the ground. "No," she replied, throwing a section of the fabric aside to reveal a scabbard and strap. She drew the sword and stood. "I want a dagger with this hilt. Without the guard, of course."  
  
The blacksmith took the rapier offered hilt-first. Jack tried to better see from his hiding place, annoyed that he could not discern what was holding Hinds's interest. Hinds was studying the engraving in the weapon's grip. When he was done, he let out a low whistle, obviously impressed. "I see," he said at last, looking back up at the woman with truly deep interest. After a moment he held the sword out at arm's length, testing its balance. Now Sparrow could see that it was a fine sword indeed, even if it did lack gleam. The guard twined protectively about the hand, its cage an elegant, simple pattern, and the blade itself was without flaw, straight and slender. Hinds obviously agreed. "This is superb craft," he announced, looking at the woman from the corner of his eye. "Did Turner make this?"  
  
"No."  
  
Both men waited for her to say more, but no more was forthcoming. Hinds offered the rapier back to her. "What length do you want the blade?"  
  
Surprise flickered across her face as she took it back. "You can make it?"  
  
"I believe I can, miss, but I'll have to keep the sword for reference on the hilt."  
  
She hesitated only a moment. "Keep it. And polish and sharpen the blade for me, please."  
  
"Gladly. What length for the dagger, miss?"  
  
"The longest practical," she replied, holding up her forefingers to demonstrate. She decreased the space between them a bit. "Perhaps some less."  
  
"Eight, eight and a half inches, then?" asked Hinds. The woman nodded. "Eight and a half it is. Will you be using it?"   
  
The question was abrupt and intended to knock her off-balance. She only shook her head. "The sword is my brother's," she said as she retrieved the scabbard and sheathed it. "The dagger will be a gift."  
  
"Ah, your brother's," Hinds said, eyeing the fluid way she handled the blade. Jack was thinking exactly the same thing, only with tenfold sarcasm. "I'll be askin' you for a week, perhaps more. For the hilt."  
  
"I understand." Her sharp face hardened as the blacksmith took the sword from her. "It needs to be perfect."  
  
"And it will be," Hinds assured her. The black eyes lingered on him skeptically, but she nodded.  
  
"What about price?"  
  
Sparrow was growing bored. The woman was a curious thing, admittedly, but there was only so long that a man could sulk about in the dark, waiting for his turn. He would come back later, he decided, preferably after shadowing the woman for a while after she left by the front door. The captain turned to steal back out the way he had come.  
  
Unfortunately, he had forgotten just how close he was to an unsteady rack of smithy tools.  
  
The deafening crash of falling metal on metal whipped Hinds around. Keahi started as well, her eyes snapping to the backroom that pained curses were echoing out of. She snatched the rapier from where it lay across Hinds's hands and lunged past him, drawing the blade and discarding the scabbard in one movement.   
  
Jack was halfway out the door when an arm hooked around his throat, jerking brutally against his forward momentum. The pirate gagged, stunned, as he was dragged back inside. Fortunately, the hold was easy enough to break. Sparrow found his feet and simply turned around, prepared to deal a blow to his attacker's jaw.  
  
He found himself much closer to the young woman's face than he had expected. That moment of disorienting proximity gave them both pause. It was enough time for Hinds to appear in the doorway, sharp green eyes taking in the entire scene.   
  
"Jack!" he exclaimed, his face spasming in surprise. "Easy, miss, easy, it's all right. I know 'im."  
  
Keahi stepped backwards, looking back and forth between the two men. "You," she said.  
  
"Me, love," Jack agreed, rubbing at his bruised throat before sketching a mocking bow. "Never thought to see me again, eh?"  
  
"How long've you been back here, Jack?" Hinds demanded, watching as Keahi bent to pick up the sword she had dropped to the ground upon realizing that the long blade would be of no use. "Your brother's sword, eh, miss?"  
  
Keahi only stared at him, fingering the rapier's hilt.  
  



	3. She's Not Italian

_Wow, three chapters, even if this one is extremely short. This is more than I expected to post on this thing.  
  
You can all thank a certain friend of mine for...uh, requesting another one. *g* You know who you are. _  
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Jack squinted one eye and scrutinized the woman, swaying backwards and then forwards as though he couldn't quite get her into focus. "Her _brother's_," he repeated, sounding almost as drunk as the night before. "No no, mate, that's her sword, all right. One way or the other. Aren't I right, love?" He grinned broadly at her. There was a scowl in her eyes that seemed to promise murder. She opened her mouth to speak, but Hinds beat her to it.  
  
"Keep to your own business, you mutt," the blacksmith growled, crossing his arms and levelling a glare at Sparrow. "I've had just about enough of your sneakin' into where your not invited."  
  
"Only just about?" Jack batted his eyelashes at Hinds. He did not seem to realize the fact that the much larger blacksmith was coming toward him until both his arms were wrenched behind his back. Keahi, standing to the side, did not know whether to smirk or raise her eyebrows when Hinds called to her, "Miss, grab those irons off the board behind ye."  
  
Keahi glanced over her shoulder. There were indeed a pair of cuffs dangling from a peg just above eyelevel. She reached up and brought them down, keeping a wary eye on Sparrow. He seemed quite limp in Hinds's grasp, an insolent smirk still curling one corner of his mouth. He winked at her, thoroughly amused by her suspicion, as she crossed the separating space and helped Hinds clap the irons onto his wrists.   
  
"Now then." Hinds grabbed Jack by the scruff of his neck and roughly pushed him past Keahi into the main room. The woman followed after, equal parts confused and irritated. She watched as Hinds shoved Sparrow down into a chair. "_You _stay there, an' if you even think about movin' I'll make sure you're not able to."  
  
"Wouldn't _dream _of it, mate." Jack's eyes traveled past Hinds as Keahi stepped closer. The blacksmith walked around behind Sparrow to face his customer.  
  
"My apologies, miss." Shrewd green eyes met hard brown ones. "Jack's not all right in the head."  
  
Keahi glanced quickly at the strange man in the chair, who seemed even shorter now that he was sitting down. He was surprisingly delicate-featured for the rough way he was dressed and the scruff on his face. Black hair fell from beneath a kercheif to drape haphazardly over his shoulders . Several locks were beaded with outrageous knick-knacks, as was his goatee, separated into two braids. She was suddenly much more aware of the weight of the pistol she had taken from him last night strapped against her hip.   
  
"Now, like we were discussin' - if you'll just leave the sword here, I'll have that dagger for ye in a week." Hinds saw the dubious look the woman directed at Jack. "Oh, don't you worry about him, miss. I don't associate with his riff-raff." And with that he reached down and yanked Sparrow to his feet by the collar. "Out, you!" he snarled as he shoved the pirate towards the front door.  
  
"If you'd be so kind, my hat - "  
  
"Hang your bleedin' hat!" Hinds wrenched the door open. "If you come in here again without leave I'll see you flayed!" He threw Jack over the threshold, "Out!" and slammed the door.  
  
When he turned back around, Keahi had an eyebrow raised at him. She was still holding the sword at her side. "Price?" she said, as though Jack had never been in the room.  
  
Hinds was at once relieved by and suspicious of her nonchalance. "Well, now. Price." He dusted both palms on the front of his vest before stepping forward and indicating that she should pass the weapon to him. She did so with just a hint of reluctance. The blacksmith ran his finger along the blade and studied the intricately carved guard and hilt. "This is a pretty piece of work you're asking for." He rolled his eyes up to look at her. "And if you want finest steel..."  
  
"Nothing else," she replied immediately.  
  
Hinds raised an eyebrow, openly scrutinizing her for any signs of wealth. Besides the impressive sword, he could not see a coin on her. "I would say...thirty-five pounds."  
  
It was too high a price. She haggled. He knew she would. "Fifteen."  
  
"Thirty-two."  
  
"Seventeen."  
  
They finally agreed upon twenty-six and a half, half now and half later. The woman seemed almost disappointed that the bartering had ended, Hinds noticed. By the way she looked at her sword in his hands so uncharitably, he was sure he knew why. "Twenty-six and a half pounds, then. Do we have an accord?" He extended his hand. She took it in a firm grip and shook once. "Half now and half later."  
  
Something seemed to darken the woman's eyes. Hinds watched with hidden curiosity as she reached inside her left sleeve. Her hand withdrew again with a gold piece trapped between middle and index fingers. "Will this do?"   
  
Hinds stared, forcing himself not to snatch the coin from her fingers. It was unmarked, but it was thick, and when he took it and bit into the metal it bent beneath his teeth.  
  
Pure gold.  
  
He looked down at the woman, pocketing the gold piece after a long moment. "Nicely," he replied.  
  
Keahi reached inside her sleeve again and withdrew a slightly smaller nugget of gold. The heavy way it dropped into Hinds's hand more than compensated for its size. "For your silence."  
  
The blacksmith didn't bother to censor the look he gave her. "Thank ye kindly, miss."  
  
The woman offered the sword hilt-first, which Hinds took carefully as she walked past him to her discarded cloak and picked it up, shaking it out before swirling it about herself. But for her height, it was impossible to tell her gender with the robes obscuring her form.   
  
"I will be back in a week," she said before pushing the front door open and walking out, leaving Hinds staring after her with a thoughtful glint in his scruffy eyes, tracing the guard of her sword with an almost covetous finger.  
  


****

  
Kohl-rimmed eyes tracked the woman's departure from the roof of Hinds's smithy. Jack Sparrow watched as the cloaked figure made its way down the bare cobblestones, tugging at one twist of his beard with dirt-caked fingers. He worried at the smooth beads until she disappeared from sight into the thickening crowd. Jack made a thorough sweep of the direction she had last been headed before turning and crawling over the peak of the gently sloped roof, wavering and swaying as though he were navigating the steepest of rock faces. Even so, he did manage flatten himself on his belly and from there slide over the edge, where he dangled for a second or two before dropping to the ground and rolling with cat's grace.  
  
"Ne'er!" called Jack in a gravelly, lusty voice as he strode in through the open backway, "insult me hat again, Messr. Hinds," The blacksmith appeared in the opposite doorway from the main forge as the pirate kicked his own door of entrance shut.   
  
"P'raps if ye didn't go about knockin' my tools down, Jack," Hinds replied, watching as the captain swept up his beloved hat from the floor, carefully dusted it off, and settled it firmly on his head.  
  
"P'raps if ye didn't stack 'em so carelessly, eh mate?"   
  
The blacksmith shrugged. "You got found out, not me," he said as Sparrow walked past him into the main room. The shorter man made a beeline for the sword the woman had left, as Hinds knew he would. "See anythin' interesting?" he drawled with a half-smirk, following after.  
  
Jack had the sword raised in both hand above eyelevel, bent slightly back at the waist and peering with drunken fascination. "S'hard to say," he slurred, throwing a look at Hinds that belied his fool's demeanor. "What's it I'm supposed t' be seeing?"  
  
"Look on the guard," said Hinds.  
  
Sparrow lowered the weapon to inspect the hilt. After a moment his eyes widened. The steel of the grip and guard were covered in impossibly thin lines. It was obviously a master who had engraved them. They twined around their surface and with each other to form the most intricate designs: here a rose, there a Celtic knot, even a detailed eagle with wings outstretched.   
  
And on the length of the grip itself reared a serpentine dragon.  
  
"Interesting, isn't it?"  
  
"Fascinatin'. Pretty question, it is, what a woman wi' the means to buy this here sword's doin' trompin' about in trousers'n'boots."  
  
Jack threw a thinly veiled glare at Hinds when the man let out a faint laugh. "Jack, Jack," he chortled, shaking his head. "You never did like to admit when you're out o' the know."  
  
"Hate it, actually, mate," Sparrow retorted with a falsetto grin. "Why don't you just tell me, eh?"  
  
Hinds pulled up a chair and plopped down into it, propping his feet up on the bench he had been sitting at when the woman had first come in. He held out his hand. Jack offered the sword to him, turning his two paces forward into a strange little hop-skip. The motion ended with one of his boots atop the bench, his arms crossed over his flexed knee as he leaned forward to study Hinds study the hilt. There was a silence as the captain waited for him to speak.  
  
"You familiar at all with the Italian houses?" said the blacksmith at last.  
  
"Oh, for the...!" Jack's hair clicked and clacked as he jerked in exasperation. "For the love of _rum_, ou' with it!"  
  
Hinds chuckled warm and low. "Indulge me, Jack. S'not often I'm savvy and yer not."  
  
"Don't be taking me word, either, mate," Jack growled. "What's that hilt got t' do with anythin'?"  
  
"Look here." Hinds pointed a finger that, although calloused, was strangely long and elegant for a blacksmith's hand. "The rose, the eagle, the knot on the guard. Surrounding the hilt with a dragon on it. Don't tell me ye don't at least know the House o' the Dragon. Come now, Jack, think o' their seal."  
  
Realization had blazed in the dark eyes before all the words were out. Jack's brow creased ever so lightly and his lips parted as he stared down at the sword and then up into Hinds's face. "I thought Barbossa'd killed the last one," he said at last in a low voice. "There was some kind of t'-do about it when they sailed from Italy."  
  
Hinds nodded. Jack blinked and took a long look over his shoulder at the door the woman had gone out of.  
  
"She's not Italian," he said when he turned back.  
  
"No. She ain't."  



End file.
